The drive home from work was a blur of throbbing agony. Each pulse of the engine, each flash of passing headlights, seemed to sync with the punishing rhythm behind Taekyun's eyes. The world was a distorted, painful mess. His only anchor, his only thought cutting through the haze, was the image of Rinwoo's room. The quiet. The dark. The faint, lingering scent on the blanket that offered a few precious moments of respite from the torment.
He barely acknowledged the servants as he strode through the grand foyer of the Lee estate, his steps hurried and unsteady. He didn't go to his own wing. He moved on autopilot, drawn like a moth to a single, dim flame, down the hallway to the door that had become his secret sanctuary.
He shoved the door open and stepped inside.
And froze.
The air that hit him was wrong. It was sterile. Clean. It smelled of lemon polish and bleach.
The room was spotless. Impeccably so. The bed was made with military precision, the sheets stark and white. The surfaces gleamed, devoid of any personal item. The curtains were drawn back, letting in the evening light, illuminating a space that was empty, hollow.
The scent—the soft, clean, uniquely Rinwoo scent that he desperately clung to—was gone. Erased.
A cold panic, sharp and immediate, cut through the fog of his headache. No.
He rushed to the wardrobe and yanked the doors open. Empty. Not a single garment, not a forgotten scarf. He dropped to his knees, pulling out the drawers beneath. Nothing but bare wood and the faint smell of disinfectant.
He stumbled to the bathroom. The counter was wiped clean. The shower was dry. No toothbrush, no comb, no half-used bottle of the simple soap Rinwoo preferred. It was a hotel room after checkout. A showroom. A tomb.
The throbbing in his head escalated into a deafening roar, fueled by a rising, uncontrollable fury. The one thing that gave him peace, the last tangible connection, had been systematically annihilated.
He stormed out of the room and into the hallway, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "SERVANTS!" he bellowed, his voice echoing through the quiet corridor, raw with a rage that was bordering on hysterical. "WHERE ARE YOU?!"
A young maid, who had been dusting a vase further down the hall, jumped at the sound, her eyes wide with fear. She scurried towards him, bowing deeply. "Y-Young Master? What is it?"
"WHO DID THIS?" he roared, gesturing wildly back at the empty room. His face was pale, his eyes wild. "WHO TOUCHED THIS ROOM? WHO GAVE THE ORDER?"
The maid flinched, trembling under his wrath. "I-I... I believe it was... it was Young Master Eunjae's order, sir. He commanded it be cleaned thoroughly this morning. He said... he said no scent should be left."
The name hit Taekyun like a physical blow.
Eunjae.
A wave of understanding, black and bitter, washed over him. This wasn't just cleaning. This was a declaration of war. This was Eunjae, carving out the last piece of Rinwoo from the house, and in doing so, carving it out of him.
Taekyun stood there, shaking, in the doorway of the sterile, scentless room, the ghost of his only comfort utterly vanquished. The void it left behind was more painful than any headache.
The sound of Taekyun's enraged bellows echoed through the quiet hallways, a discordant shockwave disrupting the estate's usual oppressive calm. Eunjae, who had been in his shared room with Daon, still stinging from the day's coldness, immediately recognized the source. A cold, grim satisfaction settled over him. He had been waiting for this.
He followed the sound, his steps measured and silent, until he reached the doorway of Rinwoo's old room. The scene was exactly what he'd expected. Taekyun was a hurricane of fury, his usually impeccable composure completely shattered. He was pulling empty drawers completely out of the wardrobe and throwing them against the wall, his movements frantic, desperate, like a animal tearing apart its cage.
Eunjae leaned casually against the doorframe, crossing his arms. He watched the spectacle for a moment, letting Taekyun's panic fully reveal itself. Then, he spoke, his voice a low, deliberate, and icy insult.
"Look at you," Eunjae said, his tone dripping with contempt. "Like a dog in heat, searching for a trace of its mate."
The words sliced through Taekyun's rage-fueled haze with the precision of a scalpel. His head snapped up, his eyes wide and wild, finding Eunjae's calm, mocking figure in the doorway. Seeing him there—the architect of this desecration, the one who had stolen his last solace—unleashed something primal in Taekyun.
The red-hot fury that had been building exploded. With a guttural roar, he crossed the room in two long strides. His hands shot out, grabbing fistfuls of Eunjae's shirt collar, and he slammed him back against the doorframe with brutal force.
"YOU!" Taekyun screamed, his face inches from Eunjae's, spittle flying from his lips. His eyes were bloodshot, blazing with a mixture of pain and uncontrollable anger. "WHAT DID YOU DO? WHERE IS EVERYTHING?!"
He shook Eunjae hard, slamming him against the wall again for emphasis. "WHERE IS IT?!"
Eunjae's head snapped back from the impact, but he didn't struggle. He just met Taekyun's enraged gaze, his own eyes filled with a cold, fearless defiance. He had stripped Taekyun of his hiding place, and now he was forcing him to face the raw, ugly truth of his own actions, without any comfort to hide behind.
The force of the impact against the wall knocked the air from Eunjae's lungs, but it did nothing to extinguish the fire in his eyes. As Taekyun's screams echoed in his face, Eunjae didn't cower. He met the fury with a scorching truth of his own.
"YOU WANT TO KNOW WHERE IT IS?!" Eunjae yelled back, his voice cutting through Taekyun's rage with the sharpness of broken glass. "I THREW IT AWAY! EVERY LAST TRACE OF HIM! BECAUSE YOU DON'T DESERVE IT!"
He shoved against Taekyun's chest, not to break free, but to emphasize his words, each one a hammer blow.
"FOR TWO YEARS! TWO YEARS you made that man suffer! You treated him like a ghost in his own home! You ignored him, you humiliated him, you let your mistress flaunt herself in his face! You broke him, piece by piece, every single day!"
Taekyun's grip loosened slightly, the raw, unfiltered accusation hitting him like a physical force.
"AND NOW?!" Eunjae laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. "Now that he's finally gone and taken his peace with him, you crawl in here like a pathetic animal, searching for his scent? You want to use the memory of the man you destroyed to make yourself feel better?"
His voice dropped into a seething, venomous whisper, each word dripping with pure contempt.
"You don't get to have that. You don't get to mourn what you never valued. You don't get to seek comfort in the ghost of someone you killed slowly, every day, with your neglect and your cruelty."
Eunjae leaned forward, his gaze unwavering, delivering the final, devastating reality check.
"The peace you're looking for? You don't deserve a single second of it. You deserve this." He gestured at the sterile, empty room around them, and then at the agonized chaos on Taekyun's face. "You deserve this pain. You deserve this emptiness. This is all that's left for you. Nothing."
The air crackled with violence. Taekyun's fist was clenched, pulled back and trembling, ready to slam into Eunjae's defiant face. The raw truth Eunjae had screamed at him had fused with his pain and rage, creating a volatile mix that demanded a physical outlet.
The blow never landed.
A powerful force shoved Taekyun backward, breaking his grip on Eunjae's collar and sending him stumbling into the center of the sterile room.
Daon stood between them, his chest heaving, his own face a mask of fury. He had heard the commotion from down the hall, and the sight of his older brother pinning his husband against the wall had overridden any lingering anger from the morning. No matter how betrayed he felt, Eunjae was still his.
"Don't you ever touch him again!" Daon snarled, his voice low and dangerous, a stark contrast to Taekyun's screaming. He positioned himself squarely as a shield in front of Eunjae, his eyes locked on his hyung.
Taekyun righted himself, his eyes blazing with a maddened light. "This doesn't concern you, Daon! Tell your husband," he spat the word, "to bring Rinwoo's things back. Now!"
Daon didn't flinch. He stood his ground, his own controlled anger beginning to simmer over. The events of the day, his father's manipulation, and now this attack, shattered his usual composure.
"Bring them back? Why?" Daon's voice was cold, laced with a scorn that was rarely directed at his older brother. "So you can what, Hyung? Lock yourself in here and cry into his clothes? Pretend you actually cared about him?"
Taekyun took a threatening step forward. "You have no idea what you're talking about!"
"I think I do!" Daon shot back, his volume rising. "I lived in this house too! I saw the way you treated him! I saw you ignore him for two years! I saw you come home to him smelling of another woman's perfume!"
He took a step of his own, now the one advancing on Taekyun, delivering a reality check just as brutal as Eunjae's.
"You had two years to appreciate him! Two years to learn his scent, to learn what made him smile, to build a life with him! But you didn't want to! You treated the kindest person in this family like he was a stain on your shoe!"
Daon gestured wildly at the empty room. "And now that he's finally had enough and left, you're throwing a tantrum because your personal comfort blanket is gone? You don't miss him, Hyung. You miss the idea of him being here, waiting for you whenever you decided to grace him with your presence. You miss a ghost you created yourself!"
He stared Taekyun down, his breath coming fast. "He's not coming back. And his things aren't coming back. It's over. You need to accept that. This... this pathetic performance is beneath you."
The words hung in the sterile air. Taekyun stood frozen, not by force, but by the sheer, shattering weight of the truth coming from his own brother. The last person left in the family who had ever looked up to him. The fight drained out of him, leaving behind only the hollow, throbbing ache of a pain that had no solace and no end.
The silence in the sterile room was heavier than the yelling that had filled it moments before. Taekyun stood alone in the center of the void, his chest heaving, the echoes of his brother's words ringing in his ears like a death knell. Pathetic performance. You don't miss him, you miss the idea. The truth was a cold, sharp blade, and Daon had plunged it deep.
He didn't watch them leave. He couldn't. He just stared at the empty space where the wardrobe stood, its open doors mocking him.
Daon's grip on Eunjae's wrist was firm, but it wasn't harsh. It was an anchor, pulling him away from the storm and into the relative safety of the hallway. He didn't let go, his own adrenaline still coursing, his focus entirely on putting distance between them and his shattered brother.
Eunjae followed, his steps slightly unsteady, his heart hammering for a different reason now. He watched the rigid line of Daon's back, the set of his shoulders that had just squared off against the family heir for him. The man who had coldly ignored him all day, who had believed the worst of him, had just defended him with a ferocity that stole Eunjae's breath.
Daon didn't speak until they reached the door of their bedroom. He finally released Eunjae's wrist to shove the door open and usher him inside. Once the door was closed, sealing them in the privacy of their space, Daon turned. His expression was still stern, a mask trying to contain the turmoil beneath.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, his voice rough with leftover anger and concern.
Eunjae shook his head, his eyes wide, fixed on Daon's face. The anger from the confrontation was fading, replaced by a wave of overwhelming admiration and a rekindled spark of hope. Daon had seen him being attacked, and his first instinct had been to protect him. Not to question, not to side with his family, but to protect him.
He took a step closer, his earlier despair completely forgotten. "You pushed him," Eunjae said, his voice full of awe. "For me."
Daon's stern mask finally cracked. He let out a long, slow breath, the tension draining from his shoulders. He looked at Eunjae, really looked at him, seeing the admiration shining in his eyes, and the last of his own doubts from the morning seemed to dissolve. He had acted on pure instinct, and that instinct had been to defend the man he loved.
He didn't answer with words. Instead, he reached out, his touch now gentle, and pulled Eunjae into a tight, almost desperate embrace, holding him as if to confirm he was safe, solid, and his.
Left alone in the hollowed-out room, Taekyun slowly sank to his knees on the cold, polished floor. The throbbing in his head was gone, replaced by a much deeper, more profound ache in his chest. The silence was no longer peaceful. It was absolute. He was surrounded by nothing. And for the first time, he understood that the nothingness was exactly what he deserved.
The moment the final bridal boutique door closed behind him, Taemin's polite, strained smile vanished. He'd endured hours of fabric swatches and cake tastings with Nayeon, his phone a burning, silent weight in his pocket. Every minute was agony, every cheerful question from Nayeon a fresh twist of the knife Juwon had plunged into his heart that morning.
He'd offered a rushed, barely coherent excuse to Nayeon, promising to call her later, before practically sprinting to his car. His first destination was the Park company headquarters. He'd marched straight past the startled receptionist, ignoring her calls of "Sir, you need an appointment!", and gone directly to Juwon's office.
He threw the door open.
The room was empty. The lights were off. The desk was neat, the chair pushed in. It had the cold, vacant feel of a space untouched for hours.
The silence of the office was a confirmation of his worst fears. Juwon wasn't here. He wasn't working. He was hiding.
Panic, sharp and irrational, completely overrode any sense of caution. The blocked number, the cruel words, the empty office—it all fused into a single, terrifying conclusion: something was terribly wrong. He wasn't thinking about rival families, about his father's or Juwon's father's wrath. He was only thinking about Juwon.
He got back into his car, his hands shaking so badly he could barely grip the steering wheel. He didn't think. He just drove.
He drove straight to the heart of the enemy's territory. He drove straight to the Park estate.
It was the biggest mistake he could have made. A Lee, showing up unannounced at the Park home, especially after the heir had just brutally broken things off with him? It wasn't just a provocation; it was a declaration of war. It was throwing a lit match onto a powder keg of generational hatred.
But Taemin wasn't thinking about any of that. He was only thinking about the sound of Juwon's broken sob. He was thinking about seeing his face, about demanding the truth, even if it had to be ripped from him in the lion's den.
He pulled up to the imposing, guarded gates of the Park estate, his heart hammering against his ribs. He was completely exposed, utterly vulnerable, and driven by a love that had just been called disgusting and meaningless. He was about to confront the one person he feared most in the world, on his own turf, for the sake of the boy that person had forbidden him to see. The recklessness of it was breathtaking. The potential for disaster was infinite.
The peace of the shrine had been a lie. The fresh air, the simple meals, the forced smiles—none of it could hold back the sickness festering inside him. It had started at noon, a deep, bone-level weakness that made his limbs feel like lead. He'd excused himself early, blaming a headache, and retreated to his room, his steps slow and unsteady.
Now, he lay on his futon, drenched in a cold sweat that had nothing to do with the evening's chill. His sleep was thin, fractured, a fragile barrier against the torment in his mind. It shattered completely with a nightmare—a familiar one of cold eyes and echoing silence in a vast, empty house. He woke with a gasp, bolting upright, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
The room was dark, lit only by the pale moonlight filtering through the paper screen door. His breath came in ragged, panicked pants. And then he felt it.
A presence. Behind him.
He froze, every muscle locking in primal fear. He knew it wasn't real. He knew it was a hallucination, a specter his traumatized mind had conjured from the depths of his suffering at the Lee estate. But knowing didn't make it less real. The cold dread washing over him was terrifyingly tangible.
Slowly, trembling violently, Rinwoo shifted away, pressing his back against the cold wall. "Stay away," he whispered, his voice cracking with raw terror.
The shadow in the corner of the room seemed to coalesce, a patch of deeper darkness that pulsed with malice. It didn't have a clear form, but it felt like him. It radiated the same cold disdain, the same soul-crushing indifference.
It took a step forward. A voice, low and venomous and perfectly mimicking Taekyun's cold tone, slithered through the silence.
"Die."
Rinwoo flinched as if struck. "No," he choked out, squeezing his eyes shut. "You're not real. You're not here."
Another step. The voice came again, closer now, a hateful whisper that seemed to come from right beside his ear.
"Die."
Tears streamed down Rinwoo's face, mixing with the cold sweat. He brought his knees to his chest, making himself small. "Please... leave me alone. Please..."
"Die." The word was a relentless hammer blow, over and over, each repetition stripping away another layer of his sanity.
"Die."
"Die."
"Die."
He clapped his hands over his ears, rocking back and forth, sobbing openly now. "Stop it! Stop it! I'm begging you, just leave!"
But the phantom was merciless. It was the embodiment of every cruel glance, every ignored plea, every moment of loneliness from two long years. It was the voice of his husband, weaponized by his own broken mind, and it was commanding him to cease existing.
He was begging a hallucination for mercy, crying in the dark for a peace that felt forever out of reach, while the shadow of the man who broke him chanted his damnation into the silent, uncaring night.
The voice wasn't a whisper anymore. It was a crescendo of malice, filling the small, dark room, vibrating through Rinwoo's very bones.
"DIE. DIE. DIE. DIE."
It was everywhere, inside his skull, clawing at his mind. The shadow seemed to loom larger, its formless presence pressing in on him, suffocating him. The rational part of his brain, the part that knew this was a hallucination, was completely drowned out by raw, animal terror.
With a strangled cry that was half-sob, half-scream, Rinwoo finally snapped. He grabbed his pillow, clutching it like a weapon, and swung it wildly at the encroaching darkness.
"Leave me alone!" he shrieked, his voice cracking with hysteria. He swung again, hitting nothing but air. "GET OUT! GET OUT OF HERE!" Tears streamed down his face, blind and desperate. He beat the pillow against the space where the shadow loomed, each strike a futile attempt to fight the phantom of his own trauma.
He swung until his arms ached, his cries devolving into ragged, broken whimpers. And then, as suddenly as it had appeared, it was gone.
The oppressive presence vanished. The chilling voice fell silent. The room was just a room again, dark and quiet, lit by moonlight.
Rinwoo stopped, his chest heaving. The pillow dropped from his limp hands onto the futon. He was trembling uncontrollably, his entire body slick with a cold sweat. He stared into the empty corner, his eyes wide with a terror that had not left with the hallucination.
Slowly, shakily, he scrambled backward, pushing himself deeper into the corner of the room, drawing his knees up to his chin. He wrapped his arms around his legs, making himself as small as possible, a frightened child hiding from a monster.
"It was nothing," he whispered to the empty room, his voice a trembling thread. "It was just... a bad dream. It wasn't real. It wasn't real."
But the mantra was hollow. He could still feel the echo of that voice, the icy dread it had instilled in him. The nosebleed, the weakness, the dizziness, and now this... these vivid, auditory hallucinations. He knew, with a cold, sinking certainty that settled deep in his gut, that his health was deteriorating far faster and more severely than he had let himself believe.
This wasn't just heartbreak. This was his mind and body breaking under the strain.
But the thought of admitting it, of voicing this new, terrifying symptom to his grandfather or Beom Seok, filled him with a fresh wave of shame and fear. They would look at him with even more pity. They would hover even closer. They would confirm that he was, indeed, losing his grip.
So he swallowed the truth. He buried it deep. He would lock this night away, another secret to add to the growing pile festering inside him. He would continue to smile, to insist he was fine, to pretend the shadows were just shadows.
Curling tighter into himself in the dark corner, Rinwoo vowed to never tell a soul. He would bear this terrifying descent alone, until he either healed or completely shattered.
The imposing iron gates of the Park estate felt like the entrance to a fortress. Taemin, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs, didn't even bother to announce himself. He simply slammed his car into park and stormed towards the entrance, his vision narrowed to a single goal: Juwon.
The guards, trained for this exact scenario, moved instantly. Two large men stepped into his path, blocking the grand front door.
"Sir, you cannot enter without an appointment," one said, his voice firm, impersonal.
"Move," Taemin snarled, desperation overriding all sense of self-preservation. He tried to shove past them.
It was a mistake. The guards reacted with practiced efficiency, grabbing his arms. A frantic struggle ensued. Taemin, fueled by a wild, heartbroken energy, fought like a cornered animal. He kicked, elbowed, and managed to wrench an arm free, bursting through the door they were meant to protect before they could fully restrain him.
He stumbled into the grand foyer, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his clothes disheveled. The sound of the scuffle had already alerted the house. He followed the light and the soft clink of china, bursting into the formal dining hall.
The scene that greeted him was one of domestic normalcy that felt like a slap in the face. They were having dinner.
Juwon was seated at the table, his posture stiff. Across from him, Mr. Park presided over the meal, his expression stern. And beside him, in her wheelchair, was Mrs. Park, looking fragile and anxious.
The illusion of calm shattered the moment Taemin crashed into the room. Servants rushed in behind him, grabbing him from behind, finally subduing him.
The noise made everyone jump. Juwon's chopsticks clattered onto his plate, the sound shockingly loud in the sudden silence. He shot to his feet, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated horror. His eyes locked with Taemin's—wide, terrified, pleading.
Mr. Park rose slowly from his seat, his movement deliberate and filled with menace. The air in the room turned to ice. His eyes, dark with a cold, furious contempt, landed on Taemin.
"WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?!" Mr. Park's voice roared through the dining hall, a thunderclap of fury that made the crystal glasses tremble. He took a step forward, his gaze sweeping over Taemin's disheveled state, the guards holding him. "How DARE you force your way into my home! You Lee trash! Have you no shame? No decency?"
He took another step, his voice dropping into a low, venomous hiss that was even more terrifying than his yell. "You come here, disrupting my family, after everything? Get this filth out of my sight!" he barked at the guards.
From her wheelchair, Mrs. Park let out a soft, distressed sound, her hand fluttering to her chest. Juwon stood frozen, paralyzed, his worst nightmare playing out before his eyes. His father's rage, Taemin's desperate, reckless love—it was all colliding, and there was nothing he could do to stop the explosion.
The guard's fist connected with Taemin's stomach, driving the air from his lungs in a painful gasp. His legs buckled, and he dropped to his knees on the cold, hard floor of the dining hall. The humiliation was acute, but the desperation was stronger. He forced his head up, his eyes, burning with unshed tears, locking not on Mr. Park, but on Juwon.
"Please," Taemin choked out, his voice strained from the blow. "Mr. Park, please... just let me talk to him. Just for a minute. I just need to know—"
The audacity of the plea—the sheer, reckless disregard for the hierarchy and hatred between their families—made Mr. Park see red. He moved with shocking speed for a man his age. He crossed the space between them in two strides, his hand swinging through the air.
The slap was explosive, a sharp crack that echoed in the stunned silence. Taemin's head snapped to the side, a bright red imprint blooming on his cheek.
Juwon's gasp was a sharp, pained sound. Every cell in his body screamed in protest. The sight of Taemin, on his knees, being struck by his father, shattered the last of his carefully constructed walls.
"NO!" Juwon cried, lurching forward before he could think.
He threw himself between his father and Taemin, turning his back to his father and shielding Taemin's kneeling form with his own body. He faced his father, his hands up in a placating gesture, his face pale with terror.
"Father, stop! Please!" Juwon's voice was frantic, begging. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! This is my fault! Forgive him, please, he didn't mean it! He's not thinking clearly!"
He was babbling, trying to absorb the blame, to become the target of his father's wrath instead. "Just let him go. Please, I'll handle it. I'll make sure it never happens again. Just let him leave. Please, Father."
He was apologizing for Taemin, shielding him, begging for his safety. It was the ultimate act of defiance and devotion, played out in front of the one person he feared most, all for the boy on his knees behind him. The carefully crafted lie of the morning was utterly demolished by this single, protective act.
Mr. Park's face, already a mask of fury, purpled with rage. His own son, his heir, was not just defying him but was actively shielding the Lee brat. It was an unconscionable betrayal.
"I said MOVE, Juwon!" Mr. Park roared, his voice shaking the crystals in the chandelier above.
Juwon didn't budge. Instead, his own knees hit the polished floor with a painful thud, mirroring Taemin's position. He collapsed into a deep bow, his forehead nearly touching the floor at his father's feet.
"Father, please," Juwon begged, his voice cracking with desperation. "He's innocent! He's just... he's stupid and impulsive! Please, I'm begging you! Punish me! Do anything to me, but let him go! I'll do anything you want, just please, don't hurt him!"
The sight of his son on his knees, begging for mercy for a rival, was the final straw. It wasn't just disobedience; it was a complete erosion of his authority and the family's values.
"YOU SEE?!" Mr. Park bellowed, his anger now directed at the spectacle of his son's humiliation. "This is what that filth has reduced you to! Groveling on the floor!"
He turned his venomous glare to the guards. "Don't just stand there! Get my son off the floor and take him to his room! NOW!"
The guards moved forward, hesitant but obedient. They tried to gently but firmly take Juwon's arms to lift him.
From her wheelchair, Mrs. Park finally found her voice, her hands trembling as she rolled closer. "Dear, please! Calm down! Let's just talk about this first—"
"SILENCE!" Mr. Park snapped, not even looking at her. He pointed a shaking finger at a nearby servant. "You! Take my wife to her room. She is unwell and should be resting."
The servant, pale and frightened, moved to obey, taking hold of Mrs. Park's wheelchair handles.
"No! Please!" Juwon cried out as the guards pulled at him. He fought against their grip, not to escape, but to stay bowed on the floor. He reached out, clutching at the hem of his father's trousers in a final, desperate act of supplication.
"Mercy, Father! Please, have mercy on him! For me! Please!"
It was a raw, gut-wrenching plea. But it only fueled Mr. Park's fury. To him, it wasn't a son asking for clemency; it was proof of a sickness that needed to be cut out, a weakness that needed to be purged with absolute, brutal force. The more Juwon begged for Taemin, the more his father's resolve hardened. There would be no mercy.
Taemin could only watch, frozen in a horror-stricken daze. Seeing Juwon—proud, gentle Juwon—on his knees, bowing so deeply, begging and crying for him, was a more brutal blow than any the guard had landed. It was wrong. It was all wrong. He was the one who should be protecting Juwon.
He tried to push himself up, to stand between Juwon and his father's wrath. "Stop—" he grunted, struggling against the guard's hold.
The guard reacted instantly, driving a fist into Taemin's side, forcing a choked cry of pain from him and sending him back to the floor, gasping for air.
The sound of Taemin's pain acted like a trigger.
Juwon's head snapped up. The sight of Taemin crumpling, hurt again because of him, because of his family, shattered something inside him. All the fear, the conditioning, the years of silent obedience evaporated in a white-hot flash of protective rage.
"DON'T YOU TOUCH HIM!" Juwon roared.
The voice that came out of him was not his own. It was raw, powerful, and filled with a fury no one in that house had ever heard from him. It echoed off the dining hall walls, stunning everyone into silence. The guard who had hit Taemin froze, his hand still raised.
Mr. Park stood utterly still, his anger momentarily eclipsed by pure, unadulterated shock. His son. His quiet, compliant son had just screamed at a member of his staff. For a Lee.
That shock lasted only a second before morphing into incandescent rage. This was the final, unacceptable transgression.
With a snarl, Mr. Park lunged forward. He ignored Taemin completely. His target was his son. He grabbed Juwon by his upper arm, his grip like iron, and yanked him violently to his feet.
"Enough!" Mr. Park hissed, his face inches from Juwon's, his eyes blazing with a promise of retribution. He began dragging a stunned Juwon toward the door, away from Taemin.
Over his shoulder, he barked an order at the guards, his voice cold and final.
"Take that Lee trash down to the cellar. To the cell. And when you have him locked up," he added, the words dripping with venom, "you beat him until he understands he is never to look at my son again."